


Hopelessly (In)Humane | FMAB Reader-Insert

by ElysianEloquist



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Beware of spoilers, F/M, Her and Pride, Older / Yandere Pride is the best Pride, Reader-Insert, The problem children of this story, Though Rea-tan's existence messes up the canon plot, Xingese Reader
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-08
Updated: 2018-10-13
Packaged: 2019-05-19 18:43:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14879189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElysianEloquist/pseuds/ElysianEloquist
Summary: You find yourself balanced precariously between the two extremes of humanity, between the golden-eyed alchemist determined never to take a human life and the violet-eyed homunculus who would slaughter entire cities to keep you by his side.Who would have ever believed that a Xingese immigrant would play such a pivotal role in Amestris's future?(Edward Elric x Xingese!Reader x Older, Yandere!Pride)Disclaimer: Hiroaki Arakawa owns the characters and plot from Fullmetal Alchemist, I just own my story's plot~





	1. More Valuable than Gold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ღ✎Authoress's Noteღ✎: My one and only disclaimer, the story is rated PG-13 at least and will include, cursing, violence, gore, suggestive situations, potentially triggering topics, and spoilers for the main series. Content warnings won’t be issued on a chapter by chapter basis since I think that ruins the mood. 
> 
> Usually, I don’t like having a reader-character where the appearance is decided for you. In this case, because she’s specifically Xingese and that is plot relevant, she looks like the Xingese characters we’ve encountered in the FMAB world—with dark hair and eyes. She’s also implied to be on the shorter side, sorry to all my taller readers-! 
> 
> Thank you, and let’s get onto the story~

“Why is big brother taking so long?” The spherical figure pouts, rocking back and forth as he sucks on his thumb. Calling him an overgrown man-child is too accurate, especially considering the whine that accompanies his words. “Lust, I’m hungry…” 

“Bear with it, Gluttony.” Sometimes Lust can even relate to how human mothers feel. “Though, I can’t say I like being kept waiting.” Lust scowls as she raps her fingernails against her upper arm. “There’s nothing more unattractive than a man who shows up late to a date.” 

“As if I would ever go on a date with a woman like you.” The only thing familiar about the low, dulcet voice is the metallic undertone—like the ring of a blade being unsheathed. “Especially not in this kind of filthy hovel.” A black dress shoe nudges the door open, revealing a tall figure wearing an irritated expression. 

“Big brother, you grew!” 

“Pride. What a surprise.” She raises a brow as she does a top to bottom scan of the male in front of her. He looks at least seventeen, with all the youthful arrogance that a teenage brat like that would possess. Cheerful, childish features have given way to cruel beauty; to sharp angles and lips that curve into smirks rather than smiles—or in this instance, scowls. “You’ve actually gotten rather handsome. Why the sudden change; I thought you liked being a tiny pipsqueak.” 

The dark-haired male flicks a stray bang away from his  violet eyes —another change that doesn’t go unnoticed by the other homunculi.  **_[1]_ ** “Nothing that concerns you.” 

“That foul attitude of yours is the same as ever.”  _Infuriating brat_ . 

“So, why are you here, big brother? Did you bring me any food?” Gluttony interjects before the argument can escalate—sometimes even his oafishness has its place. Then again, she’d rather be with a happy-go-lucky oaf than an insufferable know-it-all. 

“I was doing some sight-seeing and I thought I would stop by to check on your progress.” Pride strides around the room like a wolf on the prowl, shadows flickering around him with each step. 

“Sight-seeing.” A scoff of disbelief. “Have you hit your head, Pride? Have you forgotten that Father needs you in Central?” 

The quiet clicks of his shoes comes to a halt and Gluttony’s whining dies with them. Silence, complete and utter silence seizes the room. “Are you trying to tell me where I should and shouldn’t be,  _Lust?”_ Her name, the casual tilt of his head—they’re both warnings—she’s on a tightrope, treading the thin line of Pride’s barely existent patience. But he’s got another thing coming if he thinks he can get her on her knees. She’s not the one in the wrong, even if his cold, contemptuous stare makes her feel like she is. 

“Ah…” Gluttony’s head turns towards her. “Ah…!” Then Pride. Then back at her. And back at him. “Agh! Please stop it!” He thrashes his head left and right, balling his hands into fists and slamming them against his head. “Please don’t fight. Please-!” Crocodile tears spring from his eyes as his cries ring out in the large room. 

Fine. She’ll give in. For Gluttony’s sake. Her eyebrows lower as she exhales, slouching slightly as she deflates. “No. Please forgive me.” It takes all she has to mutter that forced apology, the words taste worse than sewage. 

But she’s not letting this go. This isn’t just a simple check in, no, Pride is nothing if not a selfish creature. He _is_ the personification of hubris after all. Sight-seeing, a change in appearance for the first time in centuries, there has to be some ulterior motive behind it, but _what?_

_‘Hmph. Maybe the high and mighty Pride has a human he cares about; why else would he want an older version of his vessel?’_ The notion is so ridiculous that she writes it off immediately. If anything, Father probably just wanted an update on the situation since they’ve been away from Central for so long with a large number of Philosopher’s Stones and Pride must have been the only one available. 

There was no way that Pride would ever take interest in anything outside of himself, let alone a human. 

 

~~**~~*~~**~~ 

 

_‘What was that place Selim got off at again…? Liore?’_ Glancing back at the train tracks from where you came, you shake your head slightly.  _‘Hopefully it’s not this run down. I could imagine some bandits trying to jump him since he looks like a stuck-up rich kid with no common sense.’_ Full-length dress pants, a red button up, and a black vest. Yes, the outfit came together nicely, he looked smart and put together as always, but who dressed like that in the desert??

In truth, you were less worried about Selim and more worried about any bandits or muggers that would try to jump him. Merciful wasn’t exactly the first word that came to mind when you thought about the Führer’s pride and joy—another sigh—hopefully this trip would end without too much bloodshed.  _You_ knew it wasn’t your fault, and  _he_ knew it wasn’t your fault, but everyone else didn’t. Have some mysterious, inexplicable deaths where the bodies are nowhere to be found and the government doesn’t blink an eye? It’s definitely the Führer’s pet dragon doing his dirty-work. (That’s only true part of the time.) 

You’re starting to feel like the grim reaper or something. 

Speaking of harbingers of death, this place looked like a fine dining establishment made for buzzards and other scavengers. Occasionally they provide some much needed shade by blocking out the sun during their constant laps overhead, just waiting for someone to give into the effects of heat exhaustion and dehydration. There are a few people around you that fit this criteria—skeletal, hidden under thin cloaks, hugging their knees and seeking shelter in the shade of the buildings. 

Most people are inside right now, it’s the middle of the afternoon and not even a single cloud can be seen in the sky. Each breath tastes like sand and your throat and lungs are slowly succumbing to an itch that makes you long to reach for the precious liquid stored in your canteen. Who’s brilliant idea was it to send a water alchemist into the desert where the only water was the blood flowing through her veins? 

_‘Oh wait, I was the one who wanted to come…’_ You can’t even blame this misguided mission on Führer Bradley’s strange sense of humor.  _‘I should get out of this heat for a bit and try to get some information.’_

Looking around at the different buildings, you spot a small place down the street that should be able to help. A faded sign reading, “restaurant,” sways in the wind just overtop of the doorway. It’s a small brick building, the once white paint is chipping off in large chunks, revealing red bricks dusted with a gracious smattering of sand overtop. You push the door open, making a small bell ring overhead. Inside, the restaurant is empty, there are four tables of four and two booths—one of the tables still has plates on top of it, but no cups. 

“Not everyday we get a new face around here,” the deep voice came from a muscular man standing behind the clay counter. Bright hazel eyes bore into you, focused, curious; you wouldn’t be surprised if this is the first time that they’ve seen someone from Xing around here. 

“Hello.” You acknowledge him with a polite nod of your head. You maneuver towards him, through the askew chairs, courtesy of the uncleaned table. “You’re not closed already, are you?” 

He shakes his head. “Been through all my regulars, figured I had time before those guys came back for dinner. Feel free to take a seat at the counter, or wherever you want. As you can see, things aren’t too lively around these parts.” 

You take his suggestion and slide into one of the open barstools at the counter. “I’m guessing water comes at a high price around here?” 

His brow sets in a firm line at your lighthearted tone. “A glass is at least five times the price of the lunch special.” The “Lunch-A Special,” according to a nearby menu, is really just a piece of toast topped with a single slice of fried deli-meat. 

“I’ll take the water, please.” 

“Sorry to be a hardass, but payment is up front when it comes to water. It’s more valuable than gold ‘round these parts.” 

You fetch the coins from the small pouch wrapped around your thigh. When you place them into the man’s hand, he nods appreciatively and tucks them into his apron’s pocket. From under the counter he pulls out a thick bucket and he undoes the padlock before opening the four latches on the perimeter of the lid. Each one makes a noisy creak as its opened—the entire process takes nearly a minute. 

_‘A security measure like that just for some water. He wasn’t joking about that more valuable than gold line.’_

He picks up a single glass—the outside is covered in a thin coating of dust—and fills it up three fourths of the way before setting the water in front of you. 

“The drought is that bad, hmm?” You pick up the glass by the rim, swirling it, watching small specks circle in the slightly clouded water. It’s probably filtered rainwater or something similar. 

“‘Fraid so.” He crosses his arms over his chest. “Ever since a year ago, we haven’t seen a single drop of water.” His eyes aren’t fixed on you, but rather on the glass you’re idly swirling. “All the vegetables, livestock, and domesticated animals have died off already. To make matters worse, the military bastard in charge of this place is a real greedy scumbag.” 

You stop swirling the water. “Oh?” 

“Major Arzen. He’s been overtaxing us and he monopolizes all the supplies coming in. We can’t fight back, or he’d just arrest us all and leave us to the buzzards. If things stay like this, we’re all going to become buzzard food anyways.” His brows are set into a hard, unyielding line and his fingers curl into claws around his forearm. He draws his stare away from the water and points with his chin, at something behind you. “Those regulars of mine, they all used to be the richest men in town. That’s the only reason they have any money left. But even they’re about to go flat broke.”—a weary, wistful sigh—“Krowatol used to be called the Oasis of the Desert, but at this rate it’s going to be wiped off the map.” His voice breaks on the last part, maybe emotion, maybe just the dryness of his throat. 

“Here.” You set the glass down and slide it across the counter. “You seem like you need this more than me.” He doesn’t look like the type that sneaks water from his own reserves. 

He licks his already chapped lips. “No, it’s…” 

“Consider it a thanks for the information,” you urge in a soft tone. 

That reaffirmation is the last nudge that he needs. The owner finally gives into his thirst and takes the glass, lifting it to his lips with trembling hands. He drinks the water in slow sips, savoring it like a wine-enthusiast with a vintage spirit. When a drop escapes the corner of his lips, he instantly lowers the glass and chases it with his tongue. 

The way he slowly works through the cup—you feel like an intruder that accidentally stumbled upon a private moment between a man and his god. Frowning slightly, you avert your eyes. _‘No one should ever have to be this thirsty.’_

It reminds you of the time you crossed the Great Desert, when five members of the twenty person caravan succumbed to heat exhaustion and dehydration. Even with your knowledge of Alkahestry, there was nothing you could do for them in that state. You had to watch the desert sands swallow them. 

Not this time—you hand grips the silver pocket-watch tucked away in your bag—this time, you weren’t going to stand by helplessly. 

“Thank you.” The word drags you out of your thoughts and draws your attention back to the man. His voice is a little less raspy, and he spoke in a much gentler tone with you. His hazel eyes are lighter than ever, crinkled at the corners from his fatherly smile—it makes you think of your dad waiting impatiently back at Central. “Let me get you a lunch special, on the house.” He’s already reaching towards the frying pan. 

“Nah, don’t worry about it.” You dismiss his fussing with a kind smile and a wave of your hand; you’re on your feet before he can force his hospitality on you. “I’ve got somewhere I need to be. Save the food for yourself and your regulars, ‘kay?” The door’s bell rings again and you’re instantly slapped by a wave of heat. 

“Wait!” 

You stop for a second, glancing over your shoulder. “Hmm?” 

“Who are you anyways, traveler?” 

A small chuckle. “Just a water enthusiast.” You  _could_ tell him, but he’d treat you differently if he learned about your title; you wanted to keep the impression he had of you intact—the impression which earned you that smile. “Please take care. Maybe the town will turn around soon~” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ღ✎Liz’s Behind the Scenes ღ✎:
> 
> Footnotes:  
> [1]: Pride’s violet eyes: The FMAB anime has an instance where Pride’s eyes change color from black to violet, it represents when he consumes something and then assimilates a certain ability of theirs, which is exactly what he’s done. While he can age his vessel, the most change seen is within a range of five years, but he’s still a young child. In order to grow past that, I figured he would just consume some teenager going through puberty. (RIP, that kid.)


	2. Sadism and Sentimentalism

_Amestris has long been regarded as Xing’s sister nation, being that they excel in Alchemy the way we excel in Alkahestry. After stepping foot in Amestris, I can say with certainty that the nation is inherently unwelcoming. You only need to take one look at the Dragon’s Pulse to feel the restless shifting of a seemingly infinite number of human souls. Chieko said something that summarizes the feeling best._

_“Amestris is a nation built on skeletons and forged in blood.”_

It was an excerpt from one of your dad’s old journals, written on a trip that he took to Amestris prior to your birth. You never understood what he meant and your mom’s words were even more confusing. Speaking from a historical standpoint, weren’t all nations like that; with the emperor’s quest for immortality and the dynastic wars, who’s to say Xing was free of skeletons and bloodshed? 

When you first set foot in Amestris, that’s when you started to understand. Deep beneath the surface, it was almost as if all the deceased were determined to haunt the nation long after their bones turned to dust. The other few in the caravan capable of sensing chi felt the same way, but you all chalked it up to exhaustion from the trip. In the last five years, you desensitized to it, but even now you could still feel the flow of those restless spirits. 

In rare cases, you felt something similar to the subtle, subterranean fluctuations of chi. Selim was one of those cases. His soul was a single entity comprised of countless entities held together by the sheer force of his will. The feeling that Major Arzen’s home gave off was similar, but on a smaller scale, lacking that domineering willpower. 

You weren’t quite sure what that meant, or what kind of mess you had gotten yourself into this time, but you’d just have to find out. 

It’s that thought which propels you up the hill, walking closer and closer towards the scorching sun. Like all ambitious scumbags that feel the need to show-off, Arzen lives in a fancy-schmancy mansion atop a fancy-schmancy hill. It gives him the perfect view of the suffering citizens that he’s supposed to be governing. Maybe you could shove Arzen off it and watch as he tumbles to the very bottom—that’d be a perfect use of this damn mountain of a hill. 

Eventually, powered on spite and sheer determination, you make it to the top and up to the front doors where you’re stopped by two soldiers, who  _must_ be sweltering from wearing their military uniforms in this weather. 

“Excuse me, what business do you have with Major Arzen?” Asked the clean-shaved one with dark brown hair peeking out from his military cap. 

“Oi, Sascha, what business could this little girl possibly have with Major Arzen?” The other guard speaks before you can, and you just raise a brow at his brusque manner. He _really_ shouldn’t try you right now. He turns to face you, lording the fact that he’s two heads taller, oblivious (or ignoring) your deadpan stare. “Little girl, if you know what’s good for you, you’ll turn around and head back to your own country.” Oh he did not just pull  _that_ card. “Or, do, you, not, even, understand, the, words, I’m, saying?” 

‘ _This jerk is_ _really_ _lucky that Selim isn’t here.’_ Is that relief or disappointment you’re feeling? Though, even without Selim here, someone should teach this racist jerk a lesson. 

Ignoring the bald baby-talk-bastard, you rummage through your bag. Wordlessly, you pull out your silver pocket-watch, the sunlight catching off the Amestrian dragon that’s emblazoned on the cover. 

“Wait… The hell is someone like you doing with—”

“My name is (Name) Hughes, the Water Dragon Alchemist.” That certainly shuts him up. Internally you smirk—sometimes your misplaced notoriety comes in handy—but externally you wear a cold, detached expression. You flick the pocket-watch open, revealing a letter that’s been folded into a tight square. “I’m here on behalf of Führer King Bradley in regards to the alchemists that have gone missing in the area.” You hand the square to the soldier that didn’t have the personality of sun-dried buzzard feces. 

He quietly unravels it. Baldy inches closer over towards him to scan the letter over his shoulder. 

Usually you leave the sadism up to Selim—maybe he’s rubbing off on you, or maybe you just like to put haughty assholes in their place—but you’re drinking in every last muscle twitch as this bastard realizes how royally screwed he is. The way his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows back air; the gradual pallor overtaking his features, especially as he reaches the bottom of the letter: personally signed and sealed by Führer King Bradley; the wide eyes that look up to see you staring back at him, unblinking, casually twirling the pocket-watch that certifies you as a state alchemist and grants you the rank of a major. 

Your smugness is apparent in the curvature of your lips. “Any issues,  _gentlemen?~”_ Your words are saturated in so much saccharine— _someone might just choke on them_ . 

“N-no s-sir-!” He clicks his heels together and stands straight at attention. You step towards him, until there’s only a foot of distance between you two. While you have to crane your head to look up at him—it’s worth it—because he doesn’t dare to look down at you. 

_“Sir?”_ Your falsely innocent query slices the air as you stop twirling your watch. The sudden stillness is more smothering than the heat. “Do you want to try again,  _Warrant Officer?”_ **_* [1]_ **

“I mean ma’am-!” His salute sounds more like he karate chopped his own head. “I apologize for my improper conduct!” 

“Go inform Major Arzen of my presence, soldier.” 

He scurries into the mansion and you pretend not to hear the swears and slurs that he’s muttering under his breath. The doors close quickly behind him, probably to keep the coolness in. 

“Major Hughes, permission to speak?” 

You glance over the other soldier, who tries his best to wear a calm, stoic visage. Earlier, you were so preoccupied by his partner that you didn’t take much note of him, but now that you were looking closer you could make out familiar features: a dimpled chin, strong jawline, freckles spread across olive skin, and bright hazel eyes. He looked like the restaurant owner. Considering how small Krowatol was, you’d bet that was his dad; the dark hair and drooping eyes must come from his mother’s side. 

“Feel free. Also, call me (Name), I’m really not a fan of formalities.” At his raised brow, you elaborate, “I just wanted to mess with that guy since he was a grade-a asshole.” 

“(Name)”—he locks eyes with you—“I think you should leave and come back with reinforcements.” His fists clench by his sides. “You have no idea what he does to alchemists.” 

“Hmm.” You hum as you pretend to mull over his words. 

_‘He’s only ranked as a private.* Why would Arzen let someone like that know what he’s up to? Or is he just that overconfident…?’_ **_[2]_ **

“All right then.” You turned away from the front door, opting to circle the perimeter of the mansion instead. “Walk and talk with me for a bit, Sascha, and then you can tell me more about what Arzen does to alchemists.” 

 

~~**~~*~~**~~

 

“You gave a Philosopher’s Stone to someone who can’t even use alchemy?” Pride can’t conceal the note of disdain that seeps into his words, not that he cares enough to try—it’s not his fault that he has a low tolerance for stupidity. “Please, regale me with your rationale.” 

Lust grits her teeth and digs her nails even further into her arm. Gluttony may be an idiot, but he’s got enough instincts to keep his mouth shut as the two of them go back and forth.

She sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose, traces of blood trickling down from her fingers like gruesome warpaint. “Arzen’s a greedy human who craves an immortal body, so he’ll find promising alchemists—”

“And the alchemical rebound will kill them all.” He cuts her off mid-sentence. “Are you trying to  _find_ sacrifices, or murder any of the ones with even a bit of potential?” He’s wasted enough of his time here listening to this blathering. Pride turns on his heels, making his way toward the door. 

“Then how about you?”—Lust calls out to him just as he was about to exit.—“Have  _you_ found a potential sacrifice?” 

Instantly, (Name) comes to mind—she has an annoying habit of invading his thoughts without any warning. At her level, performing a successful human transmutation would be within the realm of possibility. Surely, if one of her precious family members were to die, he could easily convince her to perform the “ultimate taboo” of alchemy in attempts to bring them back. 

But, if he did that, Pride would lose one of the only two humans he deemed worthy of a place in his esteem. 

“Tell me, are you really incompetent enough that I need to do all your tasks for you?” Pride answered coolly as he continues to walk away from the other homunculi. “I’m already going to go clean up your mess in Krowatol, just focus on your operations here in Liore.” 

As the door closes behind him, he can make out Gluttony’s voice. “Hey Lust, why don’t you go on a real date? When you’re done, you can slice him up and I’ll eat him. Won’t that be fun?” 

How pathetically human of them—he chuckles slightly—in their own twisted way. Gluttony is an oafish dog that’ll obey you so long as you feed it properly, but Lust seems to be tolerant of his constant whining. Perhaps they can grasp some of the strange strength that comes with human emotions, though it’s unlikely. He’s only barely begun to understand it himself, after almost losing his mother and meeting (Name). Which of the two impacts were more meaningful; realizing that all his power was worthless in the face of tragedy or finding companionship in someone so unapologetically human—and who was stronger for it? 

Regardless, those two have certainly made the last five years of his life eventful. Even though five years is nothing compared to the three centuries of his existence, his mother’s kindness and selflessness, (Name)’s enthusiasm and acceptance—he hasn’t experienced anything like that before. Among countless human lives, they were the only two that mattered to him. 

_‘Now I’m being sentimental.’_ Selim laughs in disbelief, clutching his bangs as he throws his head back. He can lie to Lust and Gluttony, but he can’t lie to himself. Even Wrath can see where the lines between Pride and Selim Bradley have blurred. The sudden fit dies down as quickly as it came. Selim shakes his head.  _‘(Name) must be rubbing off on me… She’d probably just give me that stupidly smug grin of hers if I ever said that.’_ But, picturing that bright smile of hers, directed at him and only him, he finds his own lips curved upwards. 

If miracles existed, the fact that there were humans capable of affecting a homunculus like him would surely be the first thing on the list. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ღ✎Liz’s Behind the Scenes ღ✎:
> 
> Footnotes:  
> [1]: Warrant Officer: This rank is five positions below a major, and (Name) really just says it to emphasize the fact that baldy is completely outclassed.
> 
> [2]: Private: This is the second lowest rank, one above the military police.
> 
>  
> 
> ღ✎Authoress's Noteღ✎: When I write Pride/Selim being nice, I always feel odd, as if I’m making him out of character. Like, I have no trouble thinking of his insults, but, making him nice… I always feel the need to justify myself. Though in a way, he is OOC, he has changed and been affected by events prior to the story, and I can’t wait to go into more detail about that because his dynamic with (Name) is the dynamic that really inspired me to write this, so I hope you guys will enjoy it too and that it doesn’t seem too unrealistic!


	3. A Death Sentence

You’re walking alongside Sascha around the perimeter of the mansion, which also functions as the town’s military base. After a bit of convincing, Sascha stopped glancing over his shoulder like Arzen was going to leap out and have him executed on the spot, and he told you everything: of mutilated bodies brought out to the buzzards, of bright lights and screams they were ordered to ignore.

_‘From what he told me, it sounds like Arzen’s been experimenting. But with what? Why does he need alchemists?’_ Gold? Human transmutation? Immortality? Part of you hopes that he’s a little more original than most megalomaniacs, but he’s already built his evil lair on top of a hill. This will probably end up being one of the missions that makes you lose a little more faith in humanity. Well—you glance over at the hazel-eyed boy walking quietly beside you, lost in his own thoughts—maybe not. 

“Hey Sascha, I’ve been meaning to ask, does your dad own the restaurant in town?” 

He stares blankly at you for a few moments before his lips curve into an easy smile. “Oh, you’ve met my old man?” 

“Mhm.” You return it with a small smile of your own. “I like to stop by town before these kinds of inspections, get a feel for morale in general. You don’t learn much when people are showing you what they want you to see.” 

“Ah. That’s smart. Sounds like something my mom would do.” His eyes are tinged with nostalgia. “Believe it or not, she used to be a water alchemist.” 

_Used to be._ You keep your observation quietly to yourself, letting Sascha speak as the two of you slowly walk around the mansion. 

“Not state certified or anything like that, but, she used to keep the oasis water so clean that you could see straight through to the bottom.” A smile lingers on his features, his bright eyes staring off in the distance. If you try hard enough, you can almost imagine the Krowatol he sees, of a secret treasure glimmering in the sunshine—a woman with dark hair and soft, drooping eyes watching over the crystalline waters, wearing the same smile as Sascha. 

“Was she one of the alchemists that Arzen…?” There’s no need to finish the sentence, and you don’t, more for Sascha’s sake than your own. You shouldn’t have even asked, but your mouth moved quicker than your brain—it was too late to take it back now. 

Sascha stops. For a while, he doesn’t move, save for the tremors that rack his body. He shakily exhales, opens his mouth, closes it, and then settles for a nod as words fail him. 

You take a few steps forward and then circle back to meet him. Gently, you place your hands on his shoulders, making him glance up at you; if not for the relentless, desiccating heat, his eyes would have been filled with tears. 

“Sascha, I don’t know how much it’ll mean to you, but I’m sorry.”—beneath your palms, Sascha’s shudders increase; he closes his eyes and shakes his head back and forth but you keep your grip tight and your voice steady—“Sorry that Arzen’s been allowed to continue his reign of terror,”—up and down his chest heaves in shallow breaths, he’s hyperventilating—“sorry that your mother was lost to one man’s selfish ambitions and no one’s done anything,”—chapped lips part to release a drawn out yell, just barely over a whisper; you wait until he finishes—“and I’m especially sorry that I had to make you relive all of this.” 

You squeeze his shoulders with all the strength you can muster. The force of it is enough to surprise Sascha and reward you a look at those bright hazel hues. You catch his gaze and refuse to let it go. “Arzen’s going to get what he deserves, I promise you that. It won’t bring back any of the alchemists or the oasis, but, at least it’ll keep Krowatol from being swallowed by the desert.” 

His eyes go wide. After a few breaths, he’s steady enough on his feet, you let go. “I...” He looks right at you but then breaks eye contact and looks down. “I didn’t tell them.” His words are barely over a whisper. “I didn’t tell them what happened to the alchemists before them. It’s my fault. I don’t even know what Arzen does… I just… I just know about what’s left after the process is over.” His face pales as his fists clench. “It isn’t much.” 

You close your eyes and breathe out. _’It was probably a rebound.’_ Alchemy is first and foremost a scientific study, but some people seem to think it’s sorcery. Alchemists aren’t magic, they aren’t gods—and rebounds are there to remind them of that. _‘No one would risk such a dangerous transmutation for nothing… There has to be more to this.’_ You glance back at the mansion, at the ominous presence that’s been bothering you all day. It has to have something to do with that. 

A shadowy tendril tugs on your leg. Speaking of ominous presences—your lips pull into a faint smile—Selim’s got perfect timing. Beneath you, the two dimensional figures stretch out with ease. You thought the desert sun would be too bright for Selim’s ability, but that’s not the case, if anything, he has more mobility than ever. Fortunately, Sascha is too preoccupied by his grief to notice the shifting shadows. From the dark depths, one crimson colored eye opens to peer expectantly at you.Selim’s surprisingly willing to help you on these missions, but only if you ask, and only if it’s on his terms. 

It’s amazing how many people you can send to their death with a single nod. 

And nod you do. A thin line stretches across one of the shadows, which parts to reveal jagged teeth. The lopsided grin is shaped uncannily like a scythe’s blade. “I’ll see you soon.” He leaves with that soft promise, but it’s just loud enough to snap Sascha out of his stupor. 

“Did you hear something?” He blinks and looks around, and to his knowledge, there’s nothing beside the two of you. 

“I asked if you wouldn’t mind doing me a favor?” You lie smoothly. 

Sascha tilts his head. “Sure, what is it?” 

“Do you know who’s involved in Arzen’s crimes or not? Or at least, do you know someone that would know?” 

“I… I think so. My parents have a few friends at the base.” 

“Good. Talk to them.”—

“Major Hughes!” Tch. That much be Arzen. 

—“It’ll be the deciding factor as to who’s executed alongside Arzen,” you state, just before the bastard’s within hearing distance. Sascha’s still left wide eyed by your statement, but he tries his best to throw on a neutral expression—albeit he ends up looking slightly constipated. 

You glance over at Arzen. He’s rat-faced as one might expect, with greasy looking black hair just past his shoulders and a distinctive widow’s peak. His goatee makes him look like the villains in old Xingese fairy-tales. 

“I have to say, I wasn’t expecting your visit!” He struggles to catch his breath, dabbing at his forehead with a silk handkerchief. 

“Ah, Major Arzen, it’s a pleasure to meet you. It wouldn’t be much of a surprise if you were expecting me.” You plaster a friendly smile on to lower his guard, it’s an art you’ve mastered well—it helps that you’re so young and look so unthreatening. “I was just telling Private Sascha here to gather a group of men he trusts and to receive a friend of mine from the train station.” 

“A friend?” Arzen forces his slit-thin eyes open. “And who may that be, if you don’t mind my inquiring?” 

“Selim Bradley, Führer King Bradley’s son.” They go silent. “It’s a very important task, and I’ve come to trust Private Sascha in the time I’ve spoken to him, so I entrusted him with the task of selecting others to welcome Selim. I hope it’s not too much of an inconvenience.” 

“N-no. Not at all.” 

Sascha seems shocked by Arzen’s compliant attitude, but he conceals it as he stands at attention. “Major Hughes, how many should I take with me?” 

“As many good men as it takes.” You lock eyes with him, conveying your silent message the best that you can. It’s a heavy burden to push on someone, but this is the best you can do right now. 

You drop the serious act before Arzen can catch on. “It’s really hard to miss him. Tall, dark and handsome, distinctive violet eyes, dressed like a rich brat who doesn’t realize the desert is hot as hell.” Then again, Selim probably didn’t actually _feel_ hot, considering his body’s composition, but _still._

Arzen and Sascha both stare at you blankly. You grin at them and wave Sascha off. “Well? Get going soldier, Selim doesn’t like to be kept waiting.” 

“Sir!” Sascha stands at attention and salutes. “Please excuse me, majors!” Sascha heads into the mansion, running right past the racist baldy from earlier on his quest for _good_ men to escort Selim. You smile slightly at this. 

“Please, come in, come in. It’s a bit last minute, but the cooks are preparing some lunch.” Arzen gestures you to follow him back to the front entrance. The racist baldy from earlier walks a few paces behind the two of you, and you’re vaguely aware of the dirty look he’s shooting at the back of your head. 

“If you don’t mind me asking, Major Hughes, what were the two of you doing on the side of the mansion like that?” Arzen tries to disguise the suspicion as cordiality, but he hasn’t had nearly as much practice as you have—or he’s just not as good. 

“Ah, taking a walk and appreciating the elegance”— _gaudiness_ —“of your manor.” 

Bellowing, Arzen nods. “Oh, the outside is _nothing,_ Major Hughes, it hasn’t been washed off in a few days and the desert sands love making a mess of things.” 

“You can afford the water to do so?” 

“Ah, yes, of course, are you thirsty, Major Hughes?” 

_A bucket of filtered rainwater, sealed with a padlock and four loud latches; the hoarse voice of a man deprived of water yet not daring to indulge, the revenant way he drank from the dusty cup as if it was the nectar of the gods._

The cries of your aching throat go ignored. “No, not at all.” 

~~**~~*~~**~~

 

_‘As many good men as it takes. As many good men as it takes…’_ Sascha repeats the words like a mantra, protocol be damned as he runs through the halls. There aren’t that many people stationed here at the base, but, he doesn’t want to miss anyone. Was (Name) really being serious about having people executed? She flitted between emotions so quickly. 

He’s known her for less than an hour and she’s left a stronger impression than anyone else he’s ever met—and yet he can’t make sense of any of it. Ruthlessness and compassion—is it even possible for someone to exist on both ends of the spectrum the way she does? Is it all just an act? Maybe she’s already helping Arzen and working with him, what if he’s just leading everyone to their death? On the flip side, if she isn’t, if she’s really there to free them of Arzen, who the hell should he consider a good person? And what happens to the people he decides aren’t good—wait, he already knew the answer. They’d be executed too. Was he going to be responsible for their deaths? How good is good? Surely some of the people only sucked up to Arzen because they thought it’d keep them alive, but is that really enough to justify their murder? 

A wall kindly slams him in the face and forces him to stop, physically and mentally. He’s almost grateful for it—his brain matter pulses and throbs against his skull—well except for _that._

“Did the heat get to your head, Private Sascha?” The wall—not wall, Captain—reaches out for his shoulder and squeezes it over the spot (Name) held not too long ago as she apologized. 

Sascha rubs his forehead.“No, no.”— _“It’ll be the deciding factor as to who’s executed alongside Arzen.”—“_ More like, I was struck by lightning…” 

“Heat lightning?” 

“Never mind that, sir.” He stares up at the hulking man in front of him, his maternal uncle, someone he’s known his entire life. “Uh, actually, sir. Major Hughes has entrusted me with an important duty, but”—he breathes out, and looks down at his shaking hands—“I can’t do it on my own. I need help.” 

“I’m afraid I’m not familiar with a Major Hughes. Under what authority are they operating?” 

“Führer King Bradley personally sent her and granted her written permission to act as she sees fit in regards to the missing alchemists.” 

“Führer King Bradley, huh? Didn’t think he’d care enough to send someone all the way out here. What are your orders?” 

“Uh, to gather a team of good men, and receive Selim Bradley from the train station.” Gods, how could he even start to word it? That anyone left behind would be executed? Should he say that much? Was he even _allowed_ to say the much? 

“Come into my office. You’re all shook up, the heat must have gotten to you.” Uncle Harris puts a hand on his shoulders and guides him down the hall, to a private room. The lock on the door clicks quietly behind him. “We should be able to talk freely,” his uncle reassures. He strides into the room and leans on the paper-covered desk. “All right, Sascha. This isn’t a simple escort. Of course, it _is_ the Führer’s son, but, there’s more, I can tell from how jittery you are.” It’s times like this that make him realize he got his brain from his dad’s side of the family; stubborn and straight-forward, charging blindly ahead guided by pretty-sounding philosophies. 

“Tell me everything, from the beginning.” 

And so he does his best to scramble through the explanation. He can’t help but look over his shoulder every now and then. He’s not sure whether he’s waiting to see Arzen, one of his lackeys, or (Name) break down the door. His poor heart is slamming frantically against his ribcage, and his throat is completely dry by the time he’s finished. 

His uncle hasn’t said a single word. All this time, he’s just been staring—Sascha’s pretty sure he hasn’t even blinked. His jaw’s clenched. “Sascha. This girl. You’re sure she introduced herself as the Water Dragon Alchemist and that she had a letter from Führer King Bradley?” 

“Yes, I’m sure. It don’t make a lot of sense though. Why send a water alchemist here? Especially when she looks so”—cute? Innocent? Helpless? The words are appropriate, yet they don’t sit quite right on his tongue. Something about the way she carries herself, that easy, unflappable confidence, he’d almost swear that she was the older one between the two of them—“young.” He settles lamely on that description, even though he knows it’s not what he really wants to say. 

His uncle exhales through clenched teeth, distorted whistles breaking the silence that had settled. “Listen carefully, Sascha. That girl, the Water Dragon Alchemist, she’s the Führer’s favorite pet.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“I’m saying that she’s an extremely efficient state alchemist who knows how to make people disappear. No one ever asks questions, especially since she works right under the Führer. She’s more a myth than a person.” Uncle Harris takes his cap off, tilting his head back and tightly grabbing the few hairs he has left. “And you’re telling me she’s here, that she introduced herself to you and chose to send you on a mission to pick up the Führer’s son? Kid. This sounds like a trap.” 

A trap… He considered it himself, but, was (Name) really that kind of person? He could still imagine the tight grip on his shoulders, holding him steady. It didn’t feel like an act. Her hands didn’t feel like the hands of a killer—they felt like his mom’s, catching him before he could pass out from the heat. _“I’m sorry.”_ Her voice was so resolute, so sincere. It had the eloquence of a rehearsed speech, but it was so soft and laced with emotion. 

Maybe he was weak. Maybe he wanted to believe in the sincerity of a stranger’s kindness. 

Maybe he wanted Arzen gone. 

“I don’t think it’s a trap.” He shakes his head before the fleeting confidence can pass. “I believe in her, and besides, this might be our last hope.” 

His uncle sighs as he releases his hair. “You’ve got your mother’s optimism, kid.” He sets his hand on the top of Sascha’s head. “Let’s hope it doesn’t get us both killed.” 


	4. The Precipice of Immortality

Ten soldiers are lined up beside Sascha on the sand-covered platform. Ten good men, ten people who wouldn’t be executed alongside Arzen. Is ten too little? Surely, there has to be more. But he doesn’t know much about the branch, so he just has to trust his uncle’s judgement. Even so… Sascha can’t help but think about soldiers who followed Arzen for the sake of their families. It was the best way to get fresh supplies. He would have done the same, in truth, but his dad refused to take anything that came from Arzen: _“What’s the point of taking shit from scum like that?!”_

Sascha sighs and closes his eyes for a moment’s reprieve. The sun burns through his eyelids regardless, illuminating the veins like red lightning bolts. Damned if you do, damned if you don’t. When had decisions started feeling that way? Since the drought started? Since his mother died? He wasn’t sure. But he had never been that brave. He didn’t have the courage to commit, he stayed safe, unharmed, not causing trouble, never truly taking a side. Is that why he put his faith in (Name)? Her self-assurance, the lack of hesitation—he wished he could have been like that. If he was, his mother would have been alive, and maybe he could have helped those other alchemists too. 

A bead of sweat trails into his dry eyes, burning, as if sand had just slipped in. He wished he could say he was crying. Everyone in Krowatol was too dehydrated for tears. 

“It’s been an awfully long time,” Uncle Harris says, his voice even gruffer than usual thanks to the dry air. Sascha opens his eyes and glances at the other soldiers; he was used to the prolonged heat exposure from standing guard outside, but everyone else looked like they were ready to lay down and die. “What? Do they plan on waiting for us to dehydrate to death?” His uncle’s humor has only gotten darker over the years, because of Ishval, and even more so after his mom died. 

His response is cut off by a high pitched whistle that cuts through the air. They both turn toward the tracks. The train barrels through the transparent heat waves, spitting smoke, angry and determined not to be outdone. The soldiers all stand at attention, doing their best to look like they weren’t about to collapse. 

Slowly, ever so slowly, the train comes to a halt at the platform. Through the windows, Sascha can see a single person shift. 

_‘Please, please let my eyes be wrong.’_ If they really wanted to detain Arzen and all his men, they’d need a team of bodyguards or soldiers, not one state alchemist and the Führer’s son. 

Unfortunately, his eyes aren’t lying to him, only one person steps out, matching (Name)’s description perfectly: tall, dark, handsome, violet eyes, rich-kid-outfit. Dark seems like the most fitting description, an assessment made painfully apparent as the males lock eyes. If eyes are windows to the soul, Selim’s soul is an abysmal chasm of no return, no light, no hope. A chill—an actual chill, in this unforgiving heat _—_ skitters up his spine, a spider with iced legs, stabbing into him with each step. The corner of his lip twitches, and the male looks away, as if Sascha is no longer of any interest to him. He has never been happier to be so unremarkable. 

Sascha swallows, only a drop of water seems to flow down his throat, not nearly enough to shove the sudden lump down. 

His uncle, seeing Sascha’s state, steps in as the voice of authority. “Selim Bradley, I presume.” 

“Mhm,” Selim gives a noncommittal affirmation as he focuses on rolling back the sleeves of his button-up. Somehow, he doesn’t look particularly uncomfortable in the desert heat; there’s not even a bead of sweat anywhere on his face while they all look like drowned dogs. 

_‘(Name) forgot to mention his cheery attitude.’_ The wave of fear dissipates slightly, _slightly._ If (Name) could switch from sunshine and sympathy to sadism-with-a-smile, Sascha didn’t want to see what someone like this was capable of when he got angry. 

His uncle salutes, and glares at him to the same before Selim can look up. Unbearable or not, he’s still the Führer’s son. “Welcome to Krowatol, sir. Major Hughes requested that we escort you safely back to Major Arzen’s residence.” 

“No she didn’t,” Selim spoke calmly but his voice was the personification of ice. “She simply told you to welcome me.”— _How could he know that?_ —“And since you have done that, all of you are free to go home for the day.” He finishes adjusting his sleeves and brushes off some unseen dust at the bottom of his vest. “Report to work as usual tomorrow.” That’s all he says before he strides away, tall and proud, a splash of red and black against the golden sands. They weren’t even worth a single glance back. 

“I didn’t realize there were blizzards in the dessert,” Sascha mumbled after he’s well out of earshot. 

“First a thunderstorm and now a blizzard. We’re having some strange weather today, I don’t think I’m going to rest easy until all these storms pass.” Uncle Harris sighs as the other soldiers shift uncomfortably, unsure of whether they’re truly allowed to leave or whether this was some strange test. “Either way, no point staying here ‘till we become buzzard chow. Go home, everyone. We’ll see what happens tomorrow.” 

Sascha’s eyes were fixed on that retreating figure, moving so resolutely, a perfect hostage, walking into a trap he knew nothing about. Arrogant or not, he didn’t deserve to be a pawn in Arzen’s games. (Name) didn’t either. As capable and confident as they were, they were only human, right? 

His could feel his heart beating in his throat, bile bubbling from his stomach, reaching the plug and churning, finding no release. His mouth was too dry, he forced his muscles through the motion of swallowing, but the lump—his heart—it just wouldn’t go down. Damned if you do, damned if you don’t… He said he hadn’t picked a side, but that wasn’t true, was it? He chose to play the innocent bystander, chose to watch as countless people lost their life for no reason. Don’t was the default, and he had defaulted this entire time. 

“I’m going with him!” Sascha breaks into a sprint that his aching limbs aren’t prepared for, but even though he stumbles, he keeps moving, kicking up sand behind him. 

“Sascha!” 

“He might need help finding the base!” 

Behind him, he can hear his uncle’s weary sigh, but he doesn’t follow. 

“Excuse me, Selim Bradley, sir-!” He yelled when he was still at a good distance away, but even if Selim notices, he doesn’t stop. _‘If that’s how this ass wants to play it-!’_ Sascha pushes his aching legs harder, and he eventually catches up to Selim, breathing heavily as he matches the other male’s strides. “I thought”— _whew_ —“I’d escort you”— _whew_ —“to the base.” 

Selim glances over then points his index finger at Arzen’s mansion. “I’m guessing it’s that gaudy waste of government funds.” 

“Um,”—well there goes that excuse—“er, yes, but…” 

“Are you worried about (Name)?” Selim’s voice is level, yet measured.

“Yes.” His answer disguises all his anxiety, somehow. 

Selim closes both eyes and lets out a single mocking hum. “And? If she was in danger, what would you be capable of doing?” 

Sascha falters. Well… He never even considered it. Somehow it seems foolish to say he’d be willing to throw himself in the line of fire for her; he barely even knows her, and if a state alchemist can’t handle herself he doubts he’d be able to make a difference. _Don’t be a bystander. Don’t be a bystander…_ He repeats his newfound mantra for courage. “I don’t know. But I’ve got to try.” 

Violet eyes glance over, one eyebrow raised a few degrees. “You are aware that there’s a very fine line between bravery and idiocy?” 

For the love of—did (Name) really get along with this guy? “Well fortunately, I’m not bright enough to know the difference.” 

“Fortunately, hmm?” Selim chuckles as he walks ahead of Sascha, malicious mirth in his deceptively light tone. “I hope you don’t come to regret that.”

He already regretted it, honestly. Was it possible to be more oppressive than the desert heat and colder than ice? But still, Selim was a civilian, an arrogant, punchable civilian, who happened to be the Führer’s son. 

“What about you?” Sascha asks. 

“What about me?” 

“This could be a dangerous situation and—” 

Selim glances over his shoulder with a familiar smile tugging across his lips—“Word of advice. The only person you should be worried about is yourself.”—it’s the same smile (Name) had given Arzen after condemning him to death. 

 

~~**~~*~~**~~ 

 

Lunch turned out to be a feast, as promised. But Arzen quickly realized that no matter how much he boasted about the quality of the dishes, you had no intention of partaking, making the excuse of having already eaten, even though your stomach begged for a taste-test. 

“Major Hughes, I assure you, if you’re concerned about poisons or anything silly—” 

“A number of alchemists have died in your company, Arzen.” His eye twitches at your title-less address. You run your finger around the rim of a glass if you hadn’t noticed. “I’d rather not be another name on the list of fatalities.” 

He wipes his mouth with a napkin that he sets atop his half-finished plate. “Very well.” He rises out of his chair. “Shall I show you the reason for those fatalities? I can assure you, there was no foul play involved.” 

“Lead the way.” You stand and countless eyes follow the motion, bodies tensing as if they all expected you to lunge at Arzen’s back. Please. As if you needed to ambush him to gain the edge in a fight. Your patience and feigned manners had been deteriorating with time—the time it took for Selim to get here, that is. 

Which cliché would it be, you wonder as you follow behind the major and his goons. Arzen doesn’t seem to be desperately clinging onto a loved one, so you doubted it was human transmutation. Gold is a possible motive, but considering the money he extorted from the townspeople and the state of the mansion, you had a feeling he had a sufficient amount. That left immortality. Hmm, dull. He didn’t have any particular appeal, physically or personality-wise, even if immortality was possible, it would be wasted on a walking caricature like him. 

You’re led down halls you don’t bother to memorize before Arzen opens a door for you. The rancid scent of copper and iron hits first, but that’s only the prelude. The wave of chi crashes into you. It’s not a basement filled with tortured souls like you expected, but just a single stone, shining a lustrous red, glistening from the hands of what used to be an alchemist. No one moves to turn on the light, but the light from the door is enough that you can make out scorched skin and pools of blood, bones jutting out at angles they shouldn’t be. You’ve seen countless bodies, from your days helping your grandma in the clinic, from missions with Selim, and rebounds were just a risk you took when delving into the realm of gods—but never something like this. Never something so grotesque that it’d been reduced to mystery-meat. 

“It’d be best to leave the lights off. Gruesome sight really,” Arzen’s tone was lighthearted, offensively so, and the urge to rip his stupid greasy hair out intensifies tenfold. He steps over the larger splatters of blood, and uses a handkerchief to pry the stone from their hand. There’s a crack from their charred fingers. He straightens out, cleaning off the stone as he turns to face you. “You see, Major Hughes, this is what happens to the alchemists. I ask them to perform a simple transmutation for me, and even with a Philosopher’s Stone, they fall short and die from the rebound. I certainly can’t be blamed for their incompetence.” 

A wave of comebacks and insults bubble on your tongue, but this is where you need to earn his trust, nauseating as that thought is. “So tell me, what is the simple transmutation?” 

“Perhaps you’ll be able to help, Major Hughes, I expect it’ll be nothing for a state alchemist of your caliber.” 

_‘Cut the ass-kissing.’_ There is a ninety-nine percent chance of a sass-storm the second your mouth opens, so you stare steadily through narrowed eyes, waiting for him to continue. 

He clears his throat. “A body that cannot be damaged, one invulnerable to aging and illness—would you be capable of such a feat?” Tch. Boring. Arzen was dreadfully, woefully unoriginal from beginning to end. You would be surprised if there was actually anyone who would mourn his loss, hell, that racist bastard from earlier might even be more tolerable than him. 

You make a show of looking around you, and then raise one hand at Arzen and curl your fingers for him to come closer. His eyes widen and a pleased grin spreads across his face as he rushes over, splashing through puddles of blood in his haste. You reel back slightly when he’s _too_ close to you, because his fish breath is not engaging your more human sympathies. “That depends if you’re willing to pay the price for it. I’d estimate that there’ll have enough raw material if you gather all the men still in the base. I’ll need as much water as you can spare for the medium.” 

“Does it have to be my men? Couldn’t it be the townspeople—” 

“No. They’ve spent the most time with you in proximity so their souls are closest linked to yours.” 

Arzen nods his head and strokes his beard, as if he’s just have a brilliant revelation. “I see. None of the others ever mentioned such a thing. I suppose that’s why they all failed.”— _no, it’s because I’m making this up on the spot, and you’re a power-hungry idiot_ —“You’re certain? I am willing to repay you very nicely for such a service.” 

You can’t keep back a smirk. Hook, line, and sinker. “I’ve worked with the Führer’s son long enough to pick up a few secrets.” Not a complete lie. 

Arzen pulls away from you and turn towards the soldiers that were standing by the door. “Gather every soldier still at the base and move the water tanks into the dining hall! Tell them they’re all invited to witness the birth of a true immortal!” In the middle of his spiel, some of his spit lands on your shoulder. He looks back down to see you glaring at him, eyes the color of the abyss. 

“P-please forgive me, Major Hughes. I got overly excited.” He offers you the handkerchief from earlier—until your glare shifts to the bloodstains still on it. You’ll consider forgiving him. After he’s dead. He must sense this because he pulls the handkerchief back and changes the topic. “R-right, you’ll be needing the stone to do your preparations, correct?” 

You wipe the spittle off with your own handkerchief before finally looking at him, glare easing slightly. “Yes.” 

“I think it goes without saying, Major Hughes, but you should consider the stone yours if you perform the transmutation successfully. That was the bargain I made with the other alchemists—in the spirit of Equivalent Exchange of course.” He extends the stone to you. It’s the size and shape of a dice, gleaming a lustrous red that shines with its own arcane light. 

The moment you take it, your heart skips three beats. Countless chis crash against the boundary of the stone, begging for release, like an ocean of tortured souls all screaming over each other. But it is energy in its purest form, the same energy you use for alchemy and alkahestry, multiplied who-knows-how-many times. You look down at this stone. If it is made of souls and they still had some sort of awareness, you shudder slightly, that’d be hell on Earth. Without a doubt. 

_‘It does give off the same pressure as Selim, but on a smaller scale. Does he have something similar inside of him?’_ It’s another clue on your growing list of suspicions. Selim’s usually willing to indulge your curiosity to a point, and you know better than to push him past that point—unless you want to be stripped of all autonomy and put under constant surveillance. 

“Arzen, how did you acquire this stone?” An alchemical feat like this… Was it really just alchemy? Or a blend of alkahestry? Surely there had to be some chi manipulations involved to create such a concentrated amplifier. Could your parents have been involved or—

He stops at the door with his back to you. He glances over his shoulder, and in that moment his face is more grotesque than the corpse behind you. “A very desirable woman saw my potential and thought it fit to gift me with such a stone. I know it’s remarkable but you should go get ready, Major Hughes. My men are preparing for a show, and you wouldn’t want to disappoint!” His cackling fades into the distance, but the two soldiers stay with you, likely to make sure you don’t try to run off with the stone. You can’t blame them. 

Did the other alchemists sense the immense power stored inside or were they blissfully ignorant to where the energy had come from? Is it just energy, echoing human sentiments, or is it truly human souls, trapped and pleading for mercy? Even if it was the latter, is there any way to free them? They’ve lost their physical forms, and you have no way of verifying what kind of condition their minds might be in. Would using the stone release them from this hell? Energy cannot be created or destroyed, so even in this form, it’d have to be recycled, right? Or is that just the rationality you’d have to settle with? 

You don’t know. There are too many uncertainties, and you doubt Arzen had any answers. The important person now would be the desirable woman he mentioned. You don’t remember much about your birth-mother, you’d been so young when she left with your father, but somehow desirable isn’t a term you associated with her (maybe because she _was_ your mother.) Desirable is also a subjective term. You need something concrete, a physical description, any distinguishing marks, where he met her and the nature of their agreement. Clutching the Philosopher’s Stone in your fist, you storm out of the room. 

“One of you two lead me to the dining room, and be quick about it,” you barked at the guards. They’re caught off-guard by your shift in demeanor, but one of them shoves the other in the front and the soldier speed-walks through the halls. 

By the time you marched back into the dining hall, it seems like a majority of the soldiers had gathered already. They’re taking paper plates up to the table from earlier, apparently as a show of generosity, Arzen told them the food was theirs to have. He probably considered it’d be a generous last meal, or perhaps it was his own twisted version of their unwilling sacrifice for his cause. Or so he assumed. 

You did a quick sweep of the chi around the mansion, everyone should be here, save for the ones that went with Sascha to fetch Selim. Most of them are just chatting, enjoying their meals. There’s a levity to the air, as if it truly were a celebration. For good or worse, everyone gathered here is human, and a twinge of guilt tugs at your heart. 

But you had already sealed their fate and Selim was on his way. It’s too late for regrets. 

“All ready?” You asked, mainly looking at Arzen for his response. 

“We’re all waiting with bated breath.” Arzen takes a long sip from a glass of wine, who’s color reminds you of the Philosopher Stone still clutched in your hand. “Will you need something to draw a transmutation circle?” 

“No, it’s fine. Let me give you a little lecture so you know what’s going on.” You walk towards the water tanks, opening both of the valves so the water rushes freely out. 

“That’s all the water for the next month!” 

“Major Arzen, sir-!” 

Arzen takes another gulp of wine, trying to pretend this is all part of the plan. “Gentlemen. Don’t interrupt Major Hughes, take more food if you must, but be respectful.” 

The soldiers grumble to themselves, though they can’t take their eyes off the water that’s getting all over the floors. 

“Anyways, I’m not strictly an alchemist. I combine alchemy and alkahestry, so I can read something called the Dragon’s Pulse, which is the flow of energy through nature and all living beings. This individualized energy is usually referred to as chi.” Many of the soldiers have started tuning you out, whispering as they stuff their mouths with food, the weapons by their side long forgotten. Perfect. 

“That friend of mine, Selim? He’s got a rather distinct chi, and he can manipulate it in some very interesting ways. After a few years of getting knocked around, I finally started to pick up some tricks, so even without a physical transmutation circle, I can adjust the shape of my chi, and then I can do things like this.” Your chi streaks like lightning-bolts through the puddle of water. It retracts into the center of the room, swirling into a waterspout, you let this go on until it absorbs the rest of the liquid. Everyone’s staring in thinly veiled awe, some stopped mid-chew to watch. Arzen sat up a little straighter in his chair. You do love a captive audience. 

“Do you want to know why I got the designation of Water Dragon Alchemist?” There’s a faint smirk on your lips, you’re not quite a sadist, this is what you have to tell yourself to sleep at night, but you do love dishing out a dose of karma. 

“Why is that?” Arzen is all too happy to play along, and you’ll give him points for being a good sport if nothing else. But the games haven’t really started yet. 

“Simple.” You pull your leg to the side, and the waterspout follows, twisting, distorting, reshaping itself into a translucent serpent. It’s interior is all liquid, but the outside is adorned in a thin layer of ice that creates the illusion of iridescent scales. It circles the room, bound only to the puddle of water you still have your foot in. “Though, it does get rather hungry sometimes.” The dragon opens its maw, right over a certain baldy that greeted you when you first got here. He doesn’t even have the chance to reach for his gun before it swallows him. His shouts form bubbles, and the most they do is wiggle the dragon’s scales a bit. 

In the pandemonium, lots of other soldiers start reaching for their weapons, but your not-so-little creation is faster, capturing soldiers as it flies through them, impervious to their attacks and their escape attempts from within. As for the ones that attack you, they’re dealt with by a blast of water that freezes on impact. In little more than two minutes, you and Arzen are the only ones really in the room. You reshape the dragon, into a network of icy vines that stretch across the room, keeping them bound in cocoons of ice, save for their heads. 

“Oh don’t worry, I won’t kill you. That’s Selim’s specialty.” It’s sad the only people who know that you never actually kill people usually end up dead by the end of it anyways. 

Arzen cackles. No, really, he cackles. “I like your style, Major Hughes, but how does this tie into immortality exactly?” 

“Oh, right. I haven’t even used the Philosopher’s Stone yet.” You look at the stone in your hand, and then back to Arzen. Waltzing over to the table, you pick up the glass of water you left there earlier and pour it onto the ground. “Honestly, I’m a little apprehensive, but I am also curious to a fault.” You concentrate, letting the chi from the stone flow through you, into the puddle of water. A bright flash of crimson light fills the room, but when it clears, the puddle on the ground is the equivalent of one of the water tanks. You try and gauge just how much that took out of the stone; not much, surprisingly, the force of the chi swirling inside is still massive. “Hmm. That’s something else all right. Definitely feels a little unnatural to use…” While you’re still mulling over the stone and its properties, you push your foot in Arzen’s direction. The water slams into him like a wave, pinning him to the dining room wall. You harden ice bindings around his limbs, and the water at his back, rendering him immobile. 

“What are you doing?!” His teeth chatter through his words. “W-we had a deal-!” 

“Sorry, I’m not in the mood to get spit on again.” You make another binding around his mouth. With the water surrounding you, you form a number of jagged stamps, all in the shape of the pentagram Purification Circle. They fly into Arzen, biting through clothes and skin, creating small alkahestry runes all over his body, using his own skin and blood as a medium. From your bag you retrieve a vial of acupuncture needles, quickly sliding them into the five points of the pentagram—nothing too painful really—they’re just shallow wounds, nothing that he could bleed out from. But that wasn’t exactly your intention in the first place. You’re deft with your hands, quickly and precisely finding all the points you needed, and before long you can step back to admire your work. Arzen looks like a voodoo doll gone wrong, and his eyes are full of pure hatred as he glares at you. 

You saunter back over to the table where a trail of water still connects to Arzen’s bindings. “I have some questions for you and I want answers. Describe the woman who gave you this stone in detail.” You melt the ice around his mouth. 

“Why should I cooperate with a traitor like you!?” He all but snarling at you, aggravating his wounds as the ice bindings bite into his skin. 

You lean down and dip your finger into the water, using it to draw another alkahestry rune on the tablecloth, which you slowly place five more needles into. “That whole spiel on alchemy and alkahestry? That just means I’m good at breaking things, but I’m also just as good at fixing them.” You tap your index finger to the edge of the circle, activating one of the runes in Arzen’s palm. The blood boils, literally, crimson bubbles frothing from the wound and filling the room with the scent of charred iron. “And I happen to be well versed in the limitations of the human body.” You lift your finger before bringing it back down, healing the injury you had caused. “Do you understand what I’m saying, Arzen?” 

Sweat drips from his forehead and he bares his teeth. “Child’s play. Is that the worst you’ve got?” 

You smile oh so sweetly at him. “Hardly.” Maybe a less superficial injury so he’ll take you seriously? Say, the rune adjacent to his heart? You place two fingers on the rune this time, drawing from more of your own chi. Electricity forms around the miniature circle to the left of his sternum. His screams drown out the protests of his men, who are likely just glad they’re being ignored for the time being. You pull your fingers away. 

“Why don’t you start talking; I’m really not a fan of torture for the sheer sake of inflicting pain on someone. My partner? Not as nice.” 

“Immor—immortality… I was so close _._ ” 

Even now that’s all he can think of? You aren’t sure whether to be disgusted or impressed by his one track mind. “Let’s be clear here, Arzen. You aren’t going to die until I give you permission to, and that is the closest to immortality that scum like you will ever get.” 

 

~~**~~*~~**~~ 

 

**_ღ_ ** ✎ **_Liz’s Behind the Scenes_ ** **_ღ_ ** ✎ **_:_ **

 

**_ღ_ ** ✎ **_Authoress's Note_ ** **_ღ_ ** ✎ **_:_ ** How much has Pride rubbed off on (Name)? Way, way too much. She’s a very interesting dynamic between good and bad, walking a very thin line of what she is and isn’t willing to do. I generally enjoy morally ambiguous characters, and I think that’s at the heart of her character development through the story, especially since she starts much closer to Selim than Edward. 

Also fun fact, Arzen _is_ a canon character! He was in the Fullmetal Alchemist prototype manga, basically a wholly unlikeable mix of Yoki and Father Cornello, I just thought I’d run with this idea a bit more. 

This was a longer chapter than I intended, hope it makes up for the wait, thank you for all the sweet comments, those really helped me find my muse and my confidence again! And in the next chapter. Selim and Sascha finally get to the party, and you’ll finally get to see (Name) and Selim interacting together, I truly do love their dynamic so I hope you do as well!~ 

 

**_(Name)’s Alchemy/Alkahestry_ ** : 

I actually spent quite a bit of time thinking about what it would be like for someone to be well versed in alchemy and alkahestry at the same time. (Of course, most older alkahestrists probably wouldn’t get into alchemy because of the offputting vibes they can sense but (Name) came to Amestris rather young and was encouraged to get into alchemy by her only friend at the time, Iwonderwhothatis,coughs). 

Alkahestry isn’t quite as defined as alchemy is in terms of the series we often see Mei use the pentagram Purification Circle with little kunai. She can use those circles to perform something similar to remote alchemy (as the minefields on her attack on Envy, various explosions at various points) or healing in most cases. Scar also has some alkahestric techniques that allows him to channel energy, but, it’s not completely elaborated how that works. 

Acupuncture needles come from the ancient Chinese art, but also because I’m a fan of things in miniature, so I wanted to imagine smaller scale alkahestry techniques. It happened to lend well to interrogation techniques. Oops? 

A lot of her ability comes from the idea of waterbending, but, she needs to actually be in some sort of physical contact with the source of water. Also, I figured that Pride’s shadows had to at least have _some_ of his chi in them. (Name) just replicated the technique because like she said, she got her ass beat by him for _years_. In a way, she’s drawing invisible runes with her chi, then using the water as a medium most of the times. I probably won’t elaborate that all the time and just make it sound like she’s waterbending or something, because that’s a mouthful. If she wants to use purely remote alkahestry, she has to draw the runes out. Similarly if she wants to transmute something, she’d have to properly draw a rune. (Fun fact, she also does have a transmutation circle hidden somewhere on her body, again, more just to help her channel the chi and direct it than anything.) 

I hope it doesn’t feel TOO overpowered or out of the realm of the plausible, but I needed something that was distinct to her and did her character justice because I didn’t want to just go: “Ah, yes, she attempted human transmutation and failed and now she has automail limbs—what do you mean I’m plagarizing the main character’s backstory?”Jokes aside, I really did want to see what could happen when you combined these two interconnected but different sciences, and this is what I came up with! 

(If you read this all, you deserve an award of some sort, take a virtual hug-!) 

 


	5. Mercy

You’ve taken a seat on a bench you dragged over, in front of the doorway since there weren’t any soldiers frozen overhead at this spot. At some point, a few of them had given up trying to reach you with words and tried to spit on you instead (you blamed baldy for starting it) and you weren’t in the mood to be put into a bad mood. Besides, you had other things on your mind. 

A voluptuous woman; voluminous black curls, bangs parted to the left; muted red eyes with an almost rosy sheen; some sort of circular serpent tattoo just between her collarbones. That’s Arzen’s elaborated description of the woman who gifted him the stone, after a little more persuasion on your behalf. Once he told you what you needed to know, you bounded his mouth again and he hung his head, perhaps to escape into delusions of immortality. The same can’t be said for Arzen’s men. Their screams are more distinct than the ones coming from the stone but it all blurs into discordant noise regardless.

To take the lives of those who would take life from others, in the end it’s all one vicious cycle, isn’t it; take, take, take, until you’re the one on top, until you’re the one who never gets taken from. Is that what this is about? Is that why you’re here listening to these screams, listening to people begging you for their lives? Hmm… No. That’s not it. Even if you killed them, overwhelmed them with strength concealed by your size, that would do absolutely nothing for you. It’s not much different than being in the clinic, you realize. Maybe that’s it. Maybe you’ve desensitized to the moments before death, the moments when people cherish their lives the most—they don’t have the power to elicit tears, not anymore. 

So what does? 

“It’d be awfully easy to slice your pretty little head off right now.” Selim’s breath ghosts your ear, cold as ever. His arm slink around your waist, his chest flush against your back as he pulls you into him. 

You tilt your head to the side, opening your eyes to see violet hues peering back at you. “ _You_ snuck up on me? Must have gotten lost in my thoughts.” 

His expression consist of ruler-made lines. “Don’t get lost in places I can’t go.” Even when he’s irritated his voice is incisive yet dulcet—a sword’s edge laced with saccharine. 

You hum and close your eyes, leaning into the crook of his neck. There’s no discernible pulse, just a steady flux of energy, of souls, roaring, blending into each other like the waves against the shore, a sound that always brings you back to your childhood in Rieben *****. “Is that a request or an order?” **[1]**

“Why ask questions you know the answer to?” His words are a lullaby silencing the sea of screams. “Or have you gone delirious in the heat?” 

“Just wanted to listen for a bit, drown out all the noise.” 

“What is this? (Name), what’s going on?” A raspy whisper, one you would have missed if it wasn’t just in front of you. You open your eyes to peer at a familiar bright-eyed soldier—one that you had entrusted with the task of picking up Selim. The question is, did Selim convince him to come because he wanted to kill him, or did he come of his own volition? The smirk that tugs on the homunculus’s face betrays nothing, even when you narrow your eyes slightly at him. 

“It’s your turn to set the terms,” Selim tells you in a low whisper, fingertips rapping one by one against your sides. 

It was a game really, you liked to call it sudden-death. You bet on the selflessness of humanity and Selim bet on the selfishness. So far, it’d been a fairly close half-and-half split. You had a feeling that this round leaned in your favor though; Sascha’s expression is somewhere between confused and horrified, even as his eyes flicker towards Arzen, who’s started struggling against his binds again. 

“Sascha. Do you want to know what Arzen’s been up to?” At the sound of your voice, he turns his head towards you like a wooden mannequin; the lump in his neck jumps as he swallows hard. You hold up the red stone between your fingers. “He’s been asking alchemists to use this Philosopher’s Stone to give him an immortal body, and, well, you know the result of that.” Sascha squeezes his eyes tight and they quivered with the weight of unseen tears. “I have no intention of doing that,” you reassure in a soft voice, “but, I could use this stone to restore the oasis.” 

Hazel-eyes fly open, and he stares at you in open-mouthed awe. “You mean, you could really…?” 

“There is a price. Equivalent Exchange is the basis of alchemy and I’d need a pure soul to do it. No one here qualifies, but you…” you trail off, letting the implication hang in the air. 

“You mean I…?” He clutches a hand over his heart, and then clenches it. “Is that really all you’d need?” 

“Yep, yep. Just a pure soul and the Philosopher’s Stone.” You ignore Selim’s derisive little chuckle. “I only used a bit of its energy to make the ice freezing Arzen, so, it’d be easy.” 

Sascha exhales. “If that’s what it takes.” He salutes you and tears spill from his eyes as if his body’s given up on retaining water. “Please restore the oasis.” Yet he’s smiling, in spite of it all, he’s smiling; it trembles with the rest of his body, yet it never wavers. 

And you can’t stop the laughter that bubbles from your lips. You knew he was sincere, but you never thought he was _that_ sincere. “Sascha, you know there’s no such thing as a pure soul, right?” 

He blinks, his hand and smile falling all at once. “W-what do you mean?” 

You lean back against Selim to catch your breath, smiling at the oblivious boy with a heart-of-gold. “People aren’t just good or bad, souls aren’t just pure or tainted. In the grand scheme of things, I’d be willing to bet that every soul has the same value.” 

“So, the oasis, will you…?” He’s fixated on the idea of the oasis almost as much as Arzen is on immortality, and yet you’re not even annoyed in the slightest by his question. 

“Go home, Sascha, or go help your dad out at the restaurant. Dust off your mom’s old alchemy notes, they should come in handy. Unfortunately, the execution’s about to start and the price of admission is awfully steep.” 

Selim leans close to your ear. “I’ve had enough of the charity, (Name), twenty seconds.” Twenty was generous, honestly, considering he’d just lost your usual little bet. 

You nod your head toward the door. “Go, Sascha. _Now_.” 

His eyes flicker towards the ceiling. “But what about them?” 

“Sascha. Get out. There’s no time.” 

_“Fifteen.”_

“Aren’t you the one who said every soul has the same value? Listen to them, (Name)!” 

_“Ten.”_

“Please, little Josie, she’s—” 

_“Nine.”_

“It’s just a job!” 

_“Eight.”_

“We didn’t want to—” 

_“Seven.”_

“—but we had no choice!” 

_“Six.”_

“Sascha. Leave.” 

“You can’t ask me to stand by for murder, (Name)!” Sascha’s breathing heavily after his outburst, but you don’t even dare to move. You do that and the serpent coiled around you will lash out, but not at you, never at you. “If you do, you’re no better than Arzen-!” 

“That’s right!”—The soldiers sense the shift in the air _—_ “Killing a killer makes you no better”—and join in _—_ “Listen to the kid, please, free us!”— _misreading it as hesitation._

“Be quiet.” Selim’s command is barely a whisper. Ice crunches. The voices are gone. Arzen’s cry is muffled, and the wall shudders as he flails harder. You can’t see what happened, but you can imagine well enough. 

Sascha steps back blindly, nearly tripping over his own foot, but he’s too afraid to pull his eyes away. “W-what did you…?” 

“You humans never fail to astound me with your stupidity.” Shadows creep against the ground, red eyes glaring from every direction, sickle-shaped mouths curved downwards, their razor sharp teeth bared. The grip around you tightens like iron chains. “She spared your life, not once, but _twice_. I allowed it because I was in a good mood, but you just had to keep running your mouth, didn’t you?” 

Sascha opens his mouth and the shadows shove him back against the wall, just a little further down from where Arzen’s still trapped. They wrap around his neck, drawing rivulets of blood as they tighten, biting into his skin. Words distort into choked sounds, the sounds of a dying animal. 

“I didn’t say you could speak.” Perhaps the most frightening thing is how perfectly level Selim’s voice is as a metallic ring bleeds into it. “You’ve already insulted someone I’ve deemed worthy of my company. That’s like an insult to my good judgement.” 

“Selim. Please.” You close your eyes and squeeze his arms. “ _Please. I’m begging you_.” One hand pulls away from your waist, settling to the side of your chin, turning your head toward him. You open your eyes to violet hellfire. 

“Be more specific, (Name).” His words still have that unsheathed-blade ring to them, but they’re lighter, playful even. “What are you begging me for?” 

“The little mercy you’re capable of.” It’s still not enough, he wants you to say it, and you know it. You take in a breath. “Please just kill Sascha.” You knew the rules, and asking for anything more than a swift death was useless. You don’t even know if he’ll grant you this much. 

Selim stares at you, and he stares, and he stares. You count time with your heartbeats, and it’s already been sixty-seven beats. For all you know, he might be quietly dismembering Sascha limb for limb. It wouldn’t be a surprise. But you don’t dare to look, this is about appealing to Selim—and he’s always hated when something else steals your attention away. His lips finally curve into a scythe-shaped smirk—“All right, I’ll be merciful since you asked me so nicely.”—it brings you some sick sense of relief. 

Screams turn into silence and the stillness drags on. Selim’s still looking at you, hand on your chin, it’d almost be passable as romantic if you didn’t know better. He’s particularly interested in your bottom eyelids, dry, not a tear in sight. That smirk shifts into a smile, sharp, but approving; something in your soul withers at the thought while your heart blankets itself with another layer of ice. 

“Are you upset with me?” His voice is almost singsonging as he asks the rhetoric question, ironic, given how he responded to yours earlier. 

“Hardly, I just hate when people are too good.” 

 

~~**~~*~~**~~ 

 

She says she hates when people are too good, and then the sentimental fool goes and does something like this. Selim watches with his arms crossed as (Name) coaxes more and more water from her cupped hands, the Philosopher’s Stone in middle of it all. Surely she knows she’s going to expend all the souls at this rate—then again, he wouldn’t be surprised if that was her intention in the first place. She’s standing on the edge of a bluff overlooking the hole that used to be an oasis, the water gushing out like a waterfall. If that isn’t enough, when the oasis is filled to the brim, (Name) stretches her hands out, creating thin white clouds over the expanse of the town. The stone breaks, crimson stardust floating away as the first drops of rain hit the town in over a year. Krowatol’s villagers crawl out from their shelters and he can hear their yelling from here. 

They’re all too preoccupied to look over, but if they did they would probably mistake (Name) for some sort of goddess: the sun illuminating her figure as she stands guard over the shimmering oasis waters. Those monkeys were too busy lifting bowls and buckets to catch the slight drizzle she’d made. In spite of all it, (Name) has a stupid subconscious smile on her face as she watches them, and Selim contemplates that he just might hate it. 

And then (Name) turns toward him and the hatred dulls substantially. “You did say I could make a pool whenever I wanted if I became a water alchemist.” Ah, is that what she’s smiling about; he’ll forgive her if that’s the case. 

To think, five years ago she was just a malleable pawn with sacrificial potential. It’d be simpler if that was the case, but if that was true he’d still be in a child’s body holed away in Central, doing the same thing he’s always done. He lets out an amused huff, it’s far too late to turn back, and that goes for both of them. “You’ve gotten better, but you’re still a sentimental fool; you could have done almost anything with that stone and yet you chose to help strangers who will never know enough to be grateful.” 

“True,”—a careless shrug—“but Sascha already paid the price so it’s only fair.” (Name) catches the flicker of irritation that sweeps across his features. She saunters over to him and leans in while tilting her head. “You already killed him, I don’t see why you’re so annoyed”— _because you can’t kill someone twice—_ “besides, it’s not like he was wrong.” She pivots on her heels, walking toward the train station with her back to him. “I may not be selfish like Arzen, but I’m already knee-deep in a river of blood.” Resignation, acceptance, possibly a tinge of regret? Hmm, that won’t do. 

Selim catches up with ease, slinking one arm around her waist so they walk side-by-side at the same pace. (Name) is intrinsically playful with a sharp wit always at the ready; it’s easy for him to lure that side of her out—and if it happens to distract her from some useless bout of sentimentality, well what a shame~ 

“Only knee-deep? We’ll have to work on that.” Banter is her weakness, and they both know it. 

She laughs, and this time there’s nothing that could be interpreted as melancholy tainting the sound. “You know what’s sad; for all my dad’s overprotective paranoia, he is completely right about you—you’re a horrible influence.” 

“You know, (Name), prior to meeting you, I spent lifetimes pretending to be sweet little Selim. So you could say that you were the bad influence on me.” 

“Whoa, hold on,” she turns to face him as they walk, letting him lead the way, “a wolf in sheep’s clothing isn’t any less of a wolf because it has a disguise on.” 

“True, but what does it say about you that you care for the wolf without its disguise?” 

She opens her mouth to respond. Then closes it. Then blinks. Then places the back of her hand over her forehead. “Grammy, mom, dad—you are all good people and you raised me to be the same, but I’ve failed you. Forgive me-!” She dramatically throws her head back and he chuckles at her antics. Strangely enough, he doesn’t mind these idle interactions, but only with (Name). There’s something about her that piqued his interest, she is completely human, yet somehow capable of accepting a homunculus like him. Is that admirable? Foolish? Regardless, she’s his fool (that sounds almost sickeningly sentimental, even in his own head.) 

“Oh!” She hits her own forehead as she remembers something. “Right, Selim, I was interrogating Arzen before you got there because heaven knows that guy could never make a Philosopher’s Stone. But we should probably look into the woman who—”

“Already taken care of,” he cuts her off quickly, just like he should cut off any interest she has in pursuing this. “That’s what I was doing in Liore. My father asked me to look into it when he found out we were heading this way.” The lie falls smoothly from his tongue. He doesn’t want his so-called siblings so much as _breathing_ the same air as her. “Actually, I found something out that’d probably be of interest to you.” 

To his relief, she accepts his words with a faint nod. “What’s up?” 

“Apparently, there’s someone else with a Philosopher’s Stone, a traitor by the name of Issac McDougal. He was the Freezing Alchemist, but after Ishval he joined the Anti-Establishment Movement. Rumor has it he specializes in water alchemy with a slight knowledge of some mysterious Xingese art.” Purposefully exaggerating the words, his smirk grows as her eyes narrow and darken like an abyss. 

“What? That is my thing, no, I need to fight this guy purely on principle, forget everything else. There can only be one.” 

Selim chuckles. “He should be heading towards Central if the intel I received is correct.” 

“What are we walking at this calm leisurely pace for?!” She pulls away and grabs his wrist, tugging him with her. “Come on, Selim, I’m not letting anyone else apprehend this guy before I get get to kick his ass, fair and square! You’ll get front row seats!” She adds the last part as an afterthought as if to appease him. 

“That’s a given.” Selim likens the way that she’s dragging him to how dogs pull their owners in a fit of excitement. He may have missed her little interrogation this time thanks to that nuisance, but he has no intention of missing a single second of her fight with McDougal. 

The train’s still waiting for them at the station, on his orders of course, and the two quickly climb in—the sole inhabitants. Soon enough they’re on their way, leaving a glittering oasis and an empty mansion behind them. 

 

~~**~~*~~**~~

 

**_ღ_ ** ✎ **_Liz’s Behind the Scenes_ ** **_ღ_ ** ✎ **_:_ **

 

**_Footnotes_ ** : 

**[1]:** _Rieben_ : A little island I created in Xing. The name derives from the Chinese word for Japan (According to Google Translate: Rìběn). This is actually where (Name) spent the first ten years of her life—more backstory to come! 

 

**_ღ_ ** ✎ **_Authoress's Note_ ** **_ღ_ ** ✎ **_:_ ** Let us all take a moment to mourn Sascha, who was too good for this world (I think we all knew it was coming, but, the poor guy was so close-! SO CLOSE.) That being said, (Name) and Selim together are great and horrible, ten out of ten love writing them, ten out of ten would not recommend being in the vicinity. If you didn’t notice, Selim likes wrapping himself around (Name), I don’t think it’s an affection thing so much as it sends a very distinct message to everyone around them, and he knows it. Gotta mark his territory somehow, literally being attached to its side is the best solution in his eyes. XD 

We’re finished the intro arc, which means next chapter, we finally get to see the two of them in Central, their element, surrounded by all the canon characters—and I have been waiting for this because it brings their other connections and backstory into the picture as well, which is even more fun to play with-! 

I hope you guys enjoyed, and thanks again to everyone with their brilliant comments <3 I expected so many people to run after the last chapter with Rea-tan being downright ruthless, glad to see you sadists are all still here haha, I kid, I kid~ Let me know if you have any comments or questions and thank you for the support! c: 

 

 


End file.
